Italian, The Language

She has so many the articles
And the her gender for every

The her nouns and the her adjectives

So many of the her words 

Are familiari and simili

Like a sterotyped immigrants

Tacking vowels onto the end of everything

But not as consistently as one would hope

The her verbs have always had many tenses

Which we have probably had all along

But which we never learned because the English

Doesn't have grammar of which to speak

At least to me they never taught it

I learn the words 'to laugh' 'to cry' 'to smile'

I smile, I laugh, I even cry a bit when

Before the race the horse actually kisses

The monstrance offered by the new young priest

And when the tower catches fire 

From the celebratory torches lit after the race

But in the our class while we explore 

This rich, emotional, nuanced tongue

Though they may furrow their brows

I learn that in Italian the word "frown"

non esiste.

~Andrine de la Rocha

9 Settembre 2017

Cuckoo

Today, coincidentally on my Hebrew birthday, I received a package from my mother.

Inside the box, wrapped in wads of hometown newspapers, endless plastic bags and packing tape,

Lies a metaphor for our complicated relationship.

When I hear the vague flat chime, and puzzle out an intricately carved gable through the packaging,

I recognize it immediately for what it is: a clock I sent to her from Germany some 30-odd years ago.

Inlaid wood adorns the housing, attesting to something that was once of value.

The minute hand moves when pushed, but the hour hand hangs downcast,

The crippled timepiece literally overwound by desperate people she has welcomed into her home.

A fillet hangs through the void in the base, but there is no pendulum to propel it into motion.

Enclosed are two surprisingly weighty pendants, but they are detached and therefore useless. 

The long metal chains feel corroded by exposure over time to the moist breath of audible sighs.

Pulling the chain by the short end, I can momentarily force the fly-wheel into motion, then it stalls.

Weak links rattle loose, having dropped forged hooks that once held the winding weights.

Inside one can see the mechanism, the metallic gears, the tiny bellows on their wire stems,

Which, when pumped manually, produce the predictable and apropos ‘cuckoo’ song.

All this, submitted without note or commentary, representative of time, I suppose:

The passage of time, a system of reckoning or, in the end, simply time running out.

Stewing

I stewed the stewing chicken

in the chicken stewing pot

turning the water golden with 

her earnest years of steadfast service.

She stewed for hours

but would not come undone,

dross floating to the surface

in a frothy beige foam.

Organs tumbling hardening

rather than softening over time.

Eventually I wrestled her

wearing workman’s gloves under vinyl gloves,

wielding tongs and shears and knife

but she refused to yield without a fight.

I minced the unbearably dense muscle

as it would be impossible to chew,

removing skin, yellow fat and sinew

then adding spongy parsnips, celery,

carrots, and frozen wilted parsley.

She is my medicine

I am her champion

I sit and sip, revering her plight 

hoping to manifest the stoutheartedness 

of this tough old bird.

Everything 

(for Tasche and Leonard)

I dreamed that I was called upon to assist

Leonard Cohen in packing for his last trip.

When I arrived, I kissed him

on the mouth like an old friend.

He was dressed in monks’ robes

looking uncomfortable in this skin.

It surprised me when he began to throw

piles of possessions onto the cot:

One, two, three suitcases

and endless unkempt wads of gear.

As I untangled the knot of stuff

he told me about his obsession with

accumulating athletic hobbies

he dreamt one day of trying.

So, in went the kayak, running shoes,

the rugby helmet and bowling pins.

I packed his bags, more magician than pragmatist,

as he stood by, small and humble

and folded his hands gingerly.

“They tell me,” he said

in that honey-lava-chocolate-earth voice,

“that I should choose one and focus,”

his smile was audible in the creases of his face,

“But Everything is all I’ve got.”

-Andrine de la Rocha

1/2/17